


...fantastically, wildly improbable...

by notjustmom, scrub456



Series: Towel Day 2016 [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Gen, It's For a Case, It's all about the perspective, John Makes Questionable Life Choices, John Watson Whump, John Watson is a profanity ninja, John is a BAMF but he is not a super hero, Or Is he?, Sherlock Being Sherlock, These Idiots, This is ridiculous, Towel Day, epic best friends, so many movie references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7056247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"The idea was fantastically, wildly improbable. But like most fantastically, wildly improbable ideas it was at least as worthy of consideration as a more mundane one to which the facts had been strenuously bent to fit."</i> -Douglas Adams (from "The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Adages & Perspectives

**Author's Note:**

> I had this crazy idea for this fic where people saw John do something impressive and (in his opinion) overreact. It turned into this beast of a multi-chapter... thing.
> 
> And it never would've made it to completion without notjustmom. She helped me salvage some of my favorite bits, and helped me stay sane through chapter four. (Turnabout's fair play ♡).

It's been said that every story has three sides: mine, yours, and the truth.

Whoever said that was a damned liar and a fool.

Every story has exactly one side, and it's the side that is fed to the press, released in real time, and embraced by the general populace. True or not, it's the only side that matters, despite the existence of more accurate accounts.

Especially when there's CCTV footage to back it up.


	2. The Official Version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sally know what they saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few geeky references make it into this one...

**MONDAY, 09:30**

 

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade knew well the necessity of sticking to the facts, of relying on the data. He hadn't made rank on gut feelings and hunches (Sherlock would argue that point, but he could go ahead and just sod right off). He knew that no matter the circumstances, it was vital to stay objective. And he was determined to do so.

_Stay objective._

Reading over the "official" press release and timeline of events one last time, Lestrade suppressed a chuckle and shuffled the pages. He glanced to his right to see Sherlock standing, hands clasped behind his back, looking every bit the brilliant, calculating, smug, pompous arse everyone expected him to be. Beyond Sherlock John stood at parade rest (or a very close approximation, under the circumstances), but instead of his typical wary calm, the poor man just looked... miserable. _He better get over it, he's about to get his fifteen minutes..._

Sergeant Sally Donovan, seated at the table to Lestrade's left, cleared her throat and leaned toward him, voice low. "Ready?" Lestrade nodded to the affirmative, and Donovan peered past him. "How's he doing?"

"Miserable." Lestrade pursed his lips to keep from grinning.

"This is going to be torture for him," Donovan shook her head and bit her lip. She whispered, "Serves him right, pulling a bad arse stunt like that." Lestrade couldn't restrain the snicker, and tried to cover it with a cough. Donovan clapped her hands to get the attention of the roomful of reporters. "All right, let's get started, shall we?"

 

THE FACTS:

09:47 Saturday, Mrs. Brenda Taylor called emergency services to report that she had not seen nor heard from her two teenage sons, David Taylor, age fifteen, and Jack Taylor, age eighteen, for over twenty-four hours. Uniformed officers were dispatched to her residence in order to file missing persons reports. Both young men were listed as possible runaways.

16:08 Saturday, individuals attending a private gathering at a residence located two blocks from the Taylor residence reported a foul odour and what appeared to be a wheeled bin submerged in the pond on the property. Nearby patrol was dispatched, and officers at the scene determined that the bin contained human remains.

16:21 Saturday, Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team took over the investigation. It was determined, and later confirmed by the medical examiner, that the body in the bin was that of David Taylor. He had been beaten, placed in the bin, submerged, and left to die. Time of death was estimated to be sometime early Friday afternoon. There was no evidence that Jack Taylor met the same fate; his runaway status was upgraded to probable abduction.

08:43 Sunday, Consultant for the Metropolitan Police, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his associate _(Sally paused and had to force herself not to look at John)_ Doctor John Watson, late of the Royal Army Medical Corps attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers _(for the first time in the history of their partnership, Sherlock had to admonish John with a scowl for his behavior when John huffed a quiet "damn it" -- two dozen high definition cameras caught the whole exchange)_ offered their assistance in the search for Jack Taylor.

08:57 Sunday, Mr. Holmes, based on evidence at the scene, determined that Jack Taylor had not been abducted, and ought to be considered the primary suspect responsible for David Taylor's death. The search for Jack Taylor was upgraded from probable abduction to full manhunt. It was unknown at the time whether Taylor was armed.

12:43 Sunday, Jack Taylor was spotted near a friend's home. A lengthy foot chase ensued, resulting in Taylor being subdued by _Captain_ Watson _(John groaned and promptly received Sherlock's elbow to his ribs)_. There were no further casualties, and only Captain Watson _(groan. elbow.)_ sustained minor, non-life threatening injuries. _(Much to John's chagrin, there was applause.)_

 

Donovan presented a few more specifics of the case, though it was clear she had already lost the attention of most of her audience. Lestrade took a few moments to thank Mr. Holmes for his contribution to the investigation, as his insight proved invaluable once again. He then offered a special thanks, on behalf of the entire MET, to _Captain_ (because Lestrade could be a right arse with the best of them) Watson for his impressive display of courage. 

_"Impressive display of stupidity, more like."_ Sherlock whispered. It was his turn for an elbow to the ribs.

Donovan opened the floor for questions, and the entire room turned their focus on John. There was a cacophony of camera flashes and reporters shouting questions. "Can we try one at a time?" He shouted over the din to Donovan. She smirked and nodded.

"Jules, you first!" Donovan barked over the noise, and the room went quiet.

"Jules Murphy, The Times. Doctor Watson, have you seen the video? Is that entirely unedited?" Jules Murphy of The Times gave John an appraising, verging on unprofessional, once over. "Because I think we can all agree that was... _quite_ impressive."

"I'm sorry, is the question whether or not I've seen the video?" Brow furrowed, John was making a concerted effort not to blush under the scrutiny. "Because, no, I have not. I... Damn, there's video?" He looked to Lestrade helplessly.

"How have you not seen it?" Sherlock held his mobile out to reveal the black and white footage. "It's everywhere."

"Stephens!" Lestrade called to the tech guy at the back of the room. "Play the video. Big screen." He pointed behind him with his thumb. "Just in case the Captain isn't the only one who hasn't seen it. There's also a link to a hi-def, completely unedited version in your press kits folks" He cocked an eyebrow and smirked at John. John buried his face in his gauze wrapped palms.

 

**SUNDAY 13:22**

 

Sherlock, for once, had texted Lestrade very specific details as to what alleyway off of which side street they'd _definitely_ be able to apprehend Jack Taylor. They had no way of knowing if he was armed, but he was presumed dangerous. Sherlock reported that the alley proper ran the length of three city blocks, there were two cross streets and one side alley that branched off the main alley. It was at that juncture, as long as Lestrade and his officers didn't manage to somehow ruin the plan, that they'd apprehend Taylor.

 

_Where are you and John? We'll cover the other two entrances. GL_

_Cover all three. We've a different approach route. SH_

_Do I want to know? GL_

_I'll take your silence as NO. GL_

 

"Damn it!" Lestrade divided the officers into three groups and sent them running. He looked at Donovan as he set off at a jog. "God I hate running." 

"It doesn't help that it's so bloody hot." Donovan glanced up at the sound of distant thunder and watched the dark clouds building in the sky. "Of course. It doesn't rain all summer, but today? Today _this_."

Lestrade came to a complete stop and halted the group. "This is it. We're heading south as far as the side alley. It'll branch off to our right..." Radios crackled to life then. The team opposite Lestrade's had spotted movement ahead of their position, heading north. "All right, proceed with caution." He squinted up at the nearly blackened sky as a sudden gust of wind kicked up. "Don't use your torches just yet, the dark will give us an element of cover." Lestrade and his team moved quickly and silently down the alley.

Taylor was nowhere in obvious sight. Lestrade's team, with he and Donovan in the lead, approached the juncture, which was actually the size of a small courtyard with the three alleys branching off from it. There was nothing much worth noting, a rusted skip, empty crates, and a door with a light source just down the side alley. The light only served to cast disorienting shadows. "Torches on, light everything up. Check every corner. He could be..."

"Boss!" Donovan hissed and pointed up with her chin. Lestrade followed her gaze.

"Bloody hell, what does he think he's doing?"

The building directly across from their position was a two storey warehouse. John was standing on the roof, one foot up on the ledge. He looked down at the skip directly below him, and then turned his head just enough to watch something in the alley. Lestrade leaned toward Donovan to whisper that Taylor must be straight ahead in the shadows when John made his move.

Everything happened very, very fast after that.

A gust of wind rushed down the alley, stirring up leaves and garbage. John heaved himself over the ledge and jumped. He no sooner than cleared the edge than a wicked bolt of lightning tore across the sky and from somewhere else above their heads a very familiar voice shouted John's name. He impacted the cover of the skip with an almighty crash, but used the momentum to take two quick steps, and then John leapt from the skip to the ground. He landed in what looked very much like a typical superhero crouch. Just as his feet hit the ground, corresponding thunder cracked and another gust of wind blew down the alley causing John's unbuttoned and untucked dark blue button up to billow out around him.

"Like a damn cape." Donovan wasn't exactly quiet with her observation, and John glanced up at her, still in his hero pose, as lightning crossed the sky once more.

Sally Donovan did not swoon. She absolutely did. not. swoon. Because that's just not on.

John pushed himself up to standing and turned to face the opposite end of the alley as the thunder roared once more and the rain began to fall. Out from the rain and shadows like an apparition trudged Jack Taylor. John didn't move from his spot, he simply held up one hand. Taylor froze in place, and the two men stared each other down. 

The officers that were crowded behind Lestrade all began murmuring... Above everyone he could hear someone taking bets as to whether or not Taylor and Watson were getting ready to fight, and who would win. The overall consensus seemed to be that, yes of course they should fight, and obviously Watson would win. Because, _look at him._

"Don't come any closer, Jack." John's tone was steady. Calm with an edge of something... Dangerous. Jack chanced a step forward, but froze when John held up both hands. "The only way out of here is to let one of these officers walk you out. I recommend you cooperate." His statement was punctuated by another crash of thunder.

Greg Lestrade did not swoon, but it was a near thing. And he would have admitted outright if he had, if for no other reason than to mortify John on pub night.

Jack continued to stare at John, a look of repulsion on his face. "Damn..." He mumbled something unintelligible that was masked by another rumble of thunder. "...do that to _you._ " Jack spat the last words with contempt. He looked around and his eyes grew wide as he realized all three alleyways were overrun with officers. He dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head in an act of surrender.

John remained planted firmly in his spot, hands curled into loose fists at his sides, unmoving, with the exception of his cape -- shirt. His _shirt_ \-- occasionally being caught in the wind. With his jaw set and his eyes piercing he watched Jack kneel down. Then, without turning around, he called back to Lestrade, "someone with some actual authority to do so want to help a bloke out by arresting this idiot?" It was more a command than a request, and it snapped the awestruck officers back to the task at hand. Four people barked back "Yes, sir!" Two saluted. John rolled his eyes and started to cross his arms over his chest, but just as quickly dropped his arms to his sides once more.

Sherlock blustered into the fray, from god only knows where, the effect of his grand entrance lost entirely in the absence of the billowing Belstaff (apparently even Sherlock was subject to suffering from the heat). He shoved his way through the crowd to get to John, who stood still as sentinel in the same spot as before. The two fell immediately into conversation, their voices low, with Sherlock, after only a moment, taking a step closer to John so that he was crowded right up against him. More than a few officers narrowed their eyes in protective jealousy.

"Holmes is a lucky bastard," a female PC whispered to one of her male counterparts as they walked past the spot that Lestrade and Donovan had not moved from. 

Lestrade cleared his throat, scrubbed his hand over his face, and turned his head to Donovan. "Sal, you ever see _Die Hard_? John just _McClaned_ that whole arrest. I mean, bloody hell... He jumped off a building!" A passing plain clothes officer mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _yippee-ki-yay motherf..._

"Nuh uh. That was one hundred percent, pure, unadulterated Spider-Man." Donovan held her hands up as if to signal _end of conversation._ "Did you see him stick that landing? That was not human."

"You're both wrong. That was so Dark Knight." A junior officer cut in. She shrank back a step when Lestrade turned his focus on her. "H-he and Holmes... They're already sort of vigilantes anyway, yeah?" Lestrade and Donovan shared a glance and laughed outright.

"Yeah, okay. I can see it." Lestrade chuckled. A small crowd gathered as the finer points of John's performance, as well as a few of his other... assets (seemingly unnoticed before that day, due in no small part to the bulky jumpers he always wore), were discussed, and comparisons made to action stars and superheroes alike.

Finally Anderson, a late addition to the conversation, spoke up. "Thor." He received a few confused looks and snickers in return. "Oh c'mon. Norse god of Thunder? One of the Avengers? Thunder and lightening? A warrior? When he jumped and landed..."

There was silence for a beat, and then, "Oh my god. I am calling him that from now on." Donovan clapped Anderson on the shoulder and turned to search John out. "Hey, where'd Thor and the freak go anyway?" 

Lestrade shook his head. "Sounds like a bad eighties punk band." He pulled out his mobile and texted Sherlock.

 

_I need statements. Especially from John. GL_

_Not now. SH_

_C'mon. It won't take long. GL_

_On our way to A & E. You can stop at Baker Street tomorrow. SH_

_Damn it. You okay? GL_

_Not me, idiot. John's the one who jumped off a building. Walking away from that stunt uninjured was highly improbable. SH_

_Simply precautionary. He's not really a superhero, you know. SH_

_Oh god. He heard all that? GL_

_All of central London heard. SH_

_**[link]** You didn't get that from me. SH_

_Is this what I think it is? GL_

_You know I detest repetition. SH_

_Right. Not a word. GL_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To imagine John's dark blue not-cape, reference the fantastic shirt he's wearing in "Many Happy Returns." Ahem... Yes... Sally, you're excused.


	3. What Sherlock Saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can prove what he saw. With science and... stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one bit in here that's kind of a Sherlock homage to a classic '80s film. Can you spot it?

"Up, John. Hurry." Sherlock interlocked his fingers and crouched down.

"I'm not climbing that thing. It's a death trap." Having _just_ caught up to Sherlock, John skidded to a complete stop and wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve.

"He's getting away, there's no time for impractical notions of self-preservation." Exasperated, Sherlock gestured to John with his hands still in position to give him a boost.

"Then let's just keep after him. He hasn't deviated from the more prominent alleys and streets. We can catch him!" John moved to help Sherlock stand upright.

Wrenching away from John, Sherlock glared. "He's leading us on a wild goose chase! Pay attention, John. He knows these streets and alleys almost as well as I do."

"He's just a kid!" 

"He's an eighteen year old who works as a bicycle messenger. He's got the same map of the city stored in his mind that I do."

John huffed in disbelief. "How could you possibly know that? It's not in his file."

 _(Tread on the shoe prints he left behind. Style of bicycle in garage at home. Company logo on helmet. Dirty clothes in hamper. Jersey with six different kinds of pollen. Trouser cuff rolled to avoid chain. Three distinct types of mud on tire tread...)_ Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Obvious._ Now, come _on._ " He put his hands out once more, and John grudgingly acquiesced.

"I don't like it." John grunted as he jumped and pulled himself up onto the fire escape ladder. "You know, not every chase has to be a rooftop chase." He climbed to the landing and started working to release the mechanism that would drop the ladder for Sherlock when he realized Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

 

_You mad git, where am I going? JW_

_Head north. Intersect in ten buildings. Stay with him. SH_

_Where are you going? JW_

_Stay with him. HURRY. SH_

_Tell Lestrade. JW_

 

Grumbling as he ran, Sherlock composed an intricately detailed _(longer than ten words, what a waste of time)_ text, guiding Lestrade directly to where the suspect would end up.

 

_Can you actually manage that? SH_

_Where are you and John? We'll cover the other two entrances. GL_

_Cover all three. We've a different approach route. SH_

 

Sherlock fumbled and nearly dropped his mobile as he moved to slide it into his pocket and realized he wasn't wearing his greatcoat. He missed the grounding familiarity and weight of the Belstaff, but after nearly passing out from heat exhaustion while on a case four days prior, John had hidden the coat _(how was it that a man devoid of the ability to lie could be so successfully devious)_ and threatened to give it back piece by piece if Sherlock even thought of wearing it while the temperatures were so high. Sherlock thought perhaps a rooftop chase on the hottest day of the year so far was well in order, under the circumstances.

Watching the storm clouds roll across the sky, Sherlock picked up his pace as he ducked up and down alleyways and side streets in a complex maze-like pattern; to anyone else it would have seemed nonsensical and disorienting. Re-configuring his original plan of approach to accommodate for the impending storm, Sherlock cut through a florist shop, was only _nearly_ clipped by a black cab, and photobombed _(ruined?... semantics, bah!)_ two tourist group photos before charging into a Korean restaurant. He stopped, bowed quickly to the proprietor, and in perfect Gyeonggi* Korean asked after his daughter. "Table for two, next Saturday?" The elderly man appeared completely unfazed as Sherlock made his way to the back and up the stairwell that led to the private living quarters above the business. 

The plan was simple. John was correct, Jack Taylor had not deviated his course. He was attempting to lead police on an ever-widening arc, so that when he finally decided to "disappear" there would be too much ground for the police to cover in a timely manner, and he'd have opportunity to get away for good. Based on his trajectory, he was definitely going to make his retreat through this particular side alley. He'd find, instead of an escape route a wall of police officers boxing him in. His only options would be to surrender immediately _(dull),_ or make a go at the only fire escape in that part of the alley _(probability: 96.34%)._ If he were to make it to the roof, he'd run directly into Sherlock. And _if_ he decided to try something sketchy, John would be there on the rooftop opposite with his gun.

A bit dramatic? Perhaps. But it had been just this side of an eternity since Sherlock had last had a case _(four days);_ he was due a bit of drama. And for a mere child, Jack Taylor had actually demonstrated a hint of intelligence in his eluding and evading. The least Sherlock could do was offer him the opportunity to be apprehended in grand fashion. He had, after all, broken up the tedium of existing, at least for one day.

Sherlock burst through the door to the rooftop and stopped short. The metal plates and brackets where the fire escape had been attached to the building were still in place. The fire escape, however, was not. "No. _NO!_ " Scrutinizing the tool marks and the rust patterns, Sherlock leaned over the ledge and glared down at the side of the five storey building. _(Brackets and anchors still in place. Rust stains and weather wear still visible on the wall. Recent tool marks. Removed within the past week, ten days at the most, in order to be replaced. Damn it.)_ He hadn't been through here for two months. "Damn it!." Sherlock slammed his fist down on the low wall surrounding the rooftop.

He was out of time. Taylor would be running into the alley any moment now. Sherlock scanned his surroundings with quick eyes, calculating every option. An old aerial antenna that was in such poor repair not even Sherlock would risk it. Power lines... No, John would have a fit. Speaking of...

 _Idiot!_ John was on the wrong rooftop. He was suppose to be on the roof directly across from Sherlock, another five storey building, so that he'd have a clear shot. Some how he'd managed to end up on the low two storey building diagonal from Sherlock. John was a good shot _(exceptional),_ but even with his obvious bias, Sherlock doubted John could make that shot. And if John was _there,_ where was Taylor?

 

_What happened? Where's Taylor? SH_

 

A group of officers lead by Lestrade made their way into the alley directly below Sherlock. He could see the officers approaching from the smaller alley. And there, a movement in the shadows of the alley just to John's right. Sherlock squinted, but couldn't make anything out; the sky had grown too dark. John went very still and turned his head toward the alley. Ah! John knew exactly where Taylor was. Sherlock turned his full attention on his friend and realized John was assessing all of his options. _(John's face when assessing dangerous situations is the same face he uses when assessing the contents of the refrigerator. Fascinating.)_ A look of determination settled on John's countenance and he put one foot up on the ledge. _The hell is he..._

Sherlock's mind went into overdrive. John had reached the same conclusion Sherlock would have in the same situation. He would never be able to make it down the building's interior stairs in time to intercept Taylor. The surrounding buildings were too high to get across to. Eliminating the impossibilities, the only probability for success lay in jumping. The very thought caused Sherlock's heart to plummet to his feet as he tried not to recall that _other_ time the only probability for success was in jumping. This was different. This was only two storeys. This was John. This was _worse._

It was clear, John was waiting for Taylor to make a break for it. He was going to jump to the skip below, and from there to tackle Taylor.

It was also clear John did not have a fundamental understanding of the laws of gravity.

Completely unsolicited, Sherlock's mind began calculating. Everything. _(The velocity needed [distance from the ledge to the skip divided by the amount of time...] to execute the proper trajectory. The momentum [John's mass multiplied by velocity...] with which John would impact the top of the skip. The damn impact force [all that... nonsense about mass and distance... and bloody hell...] and the effect on John's body. And then repeat for the jump from the skip to the impact with Taylor... And John knows all the best swear words and that's not math or science, but it certainly would be useful...)_

Taylor shuffled his position in the shadows.

John misinterpreted the movement and moved to push himself over the ledge.

"John!" Sherlock's warning was too late, and everything happened too fast after that.

John's trajectory was off from what Sherlock would have preferred, he was far too close to the side of the building. With the momentum he'd built, he hit the top of the skip hard, but there was some give there, so the impact didn't seem too hateful, though John did wince _(injury sustained, possible strain or sprain -- more data needed)_ when he took advantage of the kinetic energy and bounce stepped twice to leap off the skip. There was a brief instance of terrible realization when Taylor didn't appear from around the corner, then John's survival training took over. He drew his knees up and and positioned his feet. _(Good, John. Distribute the force of the impact)_ Except, instead of tucking into the expected roll, John stayed crouched on his feet and planted his hands down hard. _(A bit not good, that. You know better, John!)_

It started to rain then, and Sherlock glared at the sky until he noticed the officers approaching from the south into the alley, and Taylor was forced out into the open. Taylor looked as if he'd been beaten, more than just defensive wounds. Sherlock squinted to see through the rain. Yes. Taylor had very specific markings... familiar looking markings. And he looked on the verge of terrified.

But then John forced himself to stand, and gingerly turned to face Taylor. _(Oh, god, John, just stay down... Stubborn man.)_ John held up one hand, and even in the shadowy near-darkness of the storm, Sherlock thought he saw blood there. Injured, John was facing off against Taylor, who was suspected to have murdered someone, and what appeared to be half the city's police force was standing there just watching. 

Infuriated, Sherlock stormed down from the roof, using the infernal internal stairs, and sprinted out from the restaurant, around the block and through the north alley. He shoved his way through Lestrade's team and past Donovan just as John was ordering someone to arrest Taylor. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle when people jumped at the command, despite the fact that he well recognized the strain in John's voice. He shoved another officer out of the way with a snarl and stepped up to John.

"Idiot. What were you thinking? You could have killed yourself." Sherlock kept his voice low. _(Too harsh, tone it down.)_

"It's exactly what you would've done."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "But I would have done it better."

"Arse." John shook his head, winced in pain, and then looked over at Taylor. "It was accidental, I think."

"Agreed." Sherlock stepped closer to John. He already had an idea but, "Damage report, Doctor."

"Nothing fatal." John tried to take a step, groaned, and leaned into Sherlock.

"A & E?"

John grunted. "No ambulance, though." 

Wrapping his arm around John's back, Sherlock maneuvered his friend out the side alley. John leaned on him the entire way. "You know, people are talking," Sherlock whispered.

"They do little else." John managed a chuckle.

"I heard the word superhero used quite liberally."

"Bloody hell." John groaned as Sherlock helped him into a cab. Sherlock's mobile pinged as he was climbing in the other side.

 

_**[link]** I thought Doctor Watson might want to see this before it makes the evening news. MH_

_Damn you, Mycroft. SH_

_Hackers, little brother. It's already on the internet. MH_

_It can wait. Make yourself useful for once. SH_

_A doctor is waiting. MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gyeonggi Korean is the dialect spoken in Seoul and the Gyeonggi Province of South Korea. It is considered by many to be "standard" Korean, despite the fact that the accent makes pronunciation of words common in other Korean dialects nearly impossible. [source](http://askakorean.blogspot.com/2013/06/your-one-stop-guide-to-korean-dialects.html?m=1)
> 
> See. You learned something today. Never let anyone tell you reading fanfiction is a waste of time. ♡


	4. What John Did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not like that at all. John would bloody well know, wouldn't he? 
> 
> Also, sweary John is sweary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarah makes two movie references...

_You mad git, where am I going? JW_

_Head north. Intersect in ten buildings. Stay with him. SH_

_Where are you going? JW_

_Stay with him. HURRY. SH_

_Tell Lestrade. JW_

_Sarah, I’m going to have to beg off supply inventory. Case. Sorry. JW_

_Have fun storming the castle. Don’t get dead. ;-)_

 

“You have no idea,” John grumbled as he cautiously started climbing the rusted, decrepit fire escape. Four steps up, the whole structure shuddered. “God… Damn… Sherlock you utter tosser. If I die…” An unearthly groan of metal under stress interrupted John’s lament; he held tight to the handrail with both hands and then cursed himself. “Bloody buggering hell. You’re brilliant, Watson.” 

He was closer to the ground than the roof. The _sensible_ choice would have been to retreat immediately. Sherlock would underst… John snorted. “Right. The wanker will never let me have any peace." John, not for the last time that afternoon, acknowledged to himself that he was indeed the biggest idiot that ever lived and lunged up the stairs.

 _Only three more storeys._ He’d just have to be quick about it.

By the time he rounded the landing at the third storey, and the handrail he’d grabbed onto on the first storey had crashed to the ground, John was cursing Sherlock in earnest. In English, in Pashto, in any language he could recall.

“Ee naharay.*  
_(step. step. entire structure shifts. step.)_

Peesho.  
_(step. step. skip a step.)_

Oh shite, that one’s missing. Damn.  
_(pant. step. step quicker._ hurry. _stepstepstep.)_

Toalya saray.  
_(stepstepstep. deep breath. step. jump!)_

Shoda!” 

The only way to access the rooftop from the fourth storey was a rusted out metal ladder. The bottom three rungs were broken, the fourth was missing. John jumped and barely caught hold of the sixth rung. The fire escape groaned once more, and metal from somewhere John would rather not think about crashed to the ground.

There wasn’t even time to swear properly as the ladder creaked and the whole thing dropped a noticeable distance. John scrambled up as quickly as his arms could pull him. The second rung from the top snapped in his hand. He stretched up with all his might, grabbed the ledge of the low wall around the roof and hauled himself over just as the last rusted bolt anchoring the right side of the ladder to the building snapped.

John lay flat on his back, gasping for breath, eyes squeezed shut, the fingers of his right hand twitched over his heart as he willed it to stop racing. “Oh fuuu…” A twinge of pain radiated through his shoulder and jolted down the nerves of his arm. The damn thing had been aching for days as it usually did before a coming storm. The extra exertion was not helping things.

 _John. The suspect. Taylor is getting away._ The annoying arse who sounded like Sherlock and had taken up residence in John’s clearly dodgy mind made himself known. 

“Piss off.” John massaged his shoulder and sat up. The Sig pressing into his lower back did not lend itself to a proper rooftop strop.

_John. The case._

“Dere qrrate ma kawa. Bastard.” Every one of his muscles protested as John forced himself to stand.

_Hurtful, I’m sure. Now please, can we get on with it?_

"You know, it’s really not healthy, this. Me talking to you? My therapist would eat this up.” 

John leaned over the low wall and peered down the alley. Taylor was only three buildings ahead of him and didn’t appear to be in a hurry since he wasn’t actively being pursued. Actually… John leaned a little more and squinted. Interesting. Taylor was limping. And he seemed to be cradling his right arm protectively. He needed to get a closer look.

_Yes, you’re demonstrating some actual sense. Finally._

“You’re an insufferable prick, you know that?” John jogged across the roof, occasionally glancing down at Taylor’s progress. He stepped easily over the gap to the next building. The next two were just as simple.

Looking down at his own left arm pressed close across his abdomen, John realized the state he was in. The front of his dark blue button up shirt was torn and three buttons were missing. He must have snagged it on the ladder. “Damn. I really liked this shirt.” With a sigh he undid the rest of the buttons, glad he had worn a vest despite the heat. There was a gash across his right forearm, so he rolled up his sleeve to inspect the damage. “And this is why I insist on the tetanus booster.”

_Dull. Hurry._

“Arse.” John paused only long enough to judge the distance between the two buildings. A metre? Maybe. He made the leap, jogged to the other side of the roof and skidded to a halt.

A street. 

“Damn it!” John carded his hand through his hair and took in his surroundings. “You could’ve mentioned I’d have to get across a street, you ruddy scunner.” He waited a beat for the infuriating git in his head to respond. “When I actually need your unceasing commentary you go silent on me. Brilliant. Just bloody fantastic…”

John watched Taylor stumble and weave his way across the street. “Oi. Definitely concussed.” He frowned and inspected the front of the building. 

It wasn’t a wide street, but it was still problematic. The front of John's building had a sturdy looking overhang, wide enough for a car to pull in under; it stuck out over the street as well. The building directly across had a decorative, definitely not meant to be weight bearing, overhang as well.

"Oh god." John jumped down to the overhang below him and bounced on the balls of his feet to check the structure's stability. It _seemed_ sturdy enough. He eyed the distance he'd have to clear. It looked to be about two and a half metres, and he'd have to jump it a bit diagonally. The other overhang was lower, so he'd have to climb... something... to get up to the roof...

A downspout sticking out from a gargoyle fashioned to look like Winston Churchill's face. What the actual...

"Screw it." Today was as good a day to die as any, so for the second time John resigned himself to the designation of idiot supreme and went for it. He ran as hard as he could across the overhang, launched himself across the gap, and managed to land on his feet. The decorative overhang started to give way under his weight and John leapt up to wrap his arms around the gargoyle.

The stonework shifted minutely. "Mr. Churchill, sir..." John grunted as his feet scrabbled to gain purchase against the brick wall. "If you'd be so kind as to _not_ send us crashing to the pavement, I promise to be a better Englishman." He didn't know what that meant exactly, but it was probably something about doing less of what he was doing right at that moment.

Ignoring the fact that he'd gained a small audience, John managed to pull himself up to a crouch on top of the gargoyle. He patted the top of Winston's head. "Thanks, mate." Then John jumped straight up and pulled himself over the wall. He sat down hard to catch his breath and looked back over the ledge. "Damn," he panted, " _that_ really was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

John heaved himself up and made his way across the roof at a slow jog. Taylor was only half a building length ahead of him. He skirted a wide berth around a pigeon loft, eyeing the birds and their keeper with revulsion. One of the birds landed near his feet. “Ah no. Nope. Nuh uh. Filthy blighters.” He didn’t suffer from ornithophobia, he just wasn’t overly fond of the diseases pigeons carried with them, and felt justified in breaking into a dead sprint and vaulting to the next building without looking back.

“Oh, you tosser.” John snarled as he stared down the front of the building at yet another, albeit wider, street to traverse. He’d gotten ahead of Taylor, but didn’t think it bloody well mattered, as he had no idea how he was supposed to get across this time. There were no overhangs this time, just a…

“Shite.” John hissed as he leaned over the ledge to take a closer look at the pedway connecting his building to the one across the street. A steel structure, the sides and roof were glass so pedestrians crossing over the street could see their surroundings and the sky above. The metal was rusted, the glass was filthy and several panes were cracked. It looked like it hadn’t been used in years.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, when I die doing this, it won’t even be your fault. I realize that now. It’ll be mine. Because I’m the nutter who’s about to walk across broken glass, not because you asked me to, but because I’m too bloody daft to come up with something better.”

Gingerly, John lowered himself to the roof of the pedway, placing only the toes of one foot down first. There was a pop and the pane cracked into an intricate spider web pattern. “Damn.” He shifted his foot over to the steel frame and lowered the rest of his weight to the groaning structure. “God… this is…” Attempting to step only from steel beam to steel beam, John managed a steady pace. He spotted Taylor stumbling from the street back into the alley just as he reached the mid-point of the pedway.

A simple misstep – John’s foot slipped just a bit – and an already cracked pane dropped out from under him. An awkward lurch forward and the beams twisted and swayed in a way steel should never move. “Damn. Damn it. Bloody hell…” Glass was cracking under him at an alarming rate, and John somehow managed to lengthen his stride enough to cover the distance to the other side in just a few quick steps. He scrambled up onto the roof and decided looking back at the glass he could still hear cracking and shattering behind him was not something his nerves could handle.

Pausing long enough to peer down into the alley, John spotted Taylor sitting on some empty crates, his head tilted back against the wall. In the growing shadows, John struggled to see Taylor’s face more clearly. He thought he saw bruising there, but it was just too damn dark to see clearly. Why the hell was it so dark?

Right. The storm. “If you think I’m going to be up on a bloody roof in the middle of a bloody storm, you are outside of your mind.” John grumbled as he stomped across to get to the next building. “All right. Someone is just taking the piss now. Is this a joke?” With his hands out to his sides, John turned in a circle, looking for any indication of hidden cameras, or Sherlock following and observing him. Seeing no indication that a prank was being pulled, John turned back to inspect the next rooftop.

Or rather, he inspected the gaping, cavernous void where a rooftop had once been. Fire had claimed the building, leaving only part of the outer walls as an empty shell. “Judas priest.” John huffed a sigh and scrubbed his hand down his face. He was two buildings from the side alley where Sherlock seemed to think this would all come to an end. He could see the damned thing. 

John leaned over the side of the building once more, just to make sure he could still see Taylor. The teen hadn’t moved from his crate. He seemed… more than a bit not good. “Damn it all to hell.” If nothing else, John needed to get to Taylor to make sure he didn’t die too.

That’s when John noticed the balcony. Rather, the balconies. “Why the bloody hell would anyone want a balcony that overlooks an alley?’ He wrinkled his nose in distaste. The building he was standing on top of, and the one directly across from it, both had several balconies that opened over the alley. There was one just below him, and another almost directly across from it. The balcony below him was narrow, only about a metre, and the one across appeared about the same. But that meant he only had to get across two metres. 

“And just like that a damn impossible situation is merely damn improbable. I suppose you’re just chuffed out of your mind, aren’t you, you prat?” 

John was exhausted. Not only was he exhausted, but he ached all over and he felt as if he was going to melt in the heat. As a result, his ability to give a damn had all but evaporated. He dropped down onto the balcony below him, nearly knocking over a potted fern. It appeared no one was home, which was just as well. John climbed up on the metal railing, eyed the slightly wider wooden rail on the balcony across from him, and prayed it would hold his weight.

With a grunt, John dove across to the opposite balcony, and tumbled to the floor. He slid to a stop pressed against the glass sliding door. He startled a toddler who had been bashing a kitchen pot with a wooden spoon. They stared at each other, both wide eyed and in shock, for a brief moment, until the toddler’s lower lip started trembling, and bloody hell, John knew what that meant. “Damn.” The last thing John needed was the cranky toddler’s even more cranky mum to deal with.

Standing up – a feat that seemed to get more difficult the longer John was on this errand – John made quick work of climbing up on the balcony railing and pulling himself up to the rooftop. He could hear the toddler screaming below him, and was rather glad for the fact that his _give a damn_ was broken. He crossed the small gap to the next building and ran across the rooftop. 

Once more, John came to an abrupt halt. The next building, the one sitting where the side alley intersected with the main alley, was a much lower building. There was probably a three storey difference. A quick scan of his surroundings, and John noticed the old aerial antennae. It was just a bit of a stretch to reach it, and it wasn’t in great condition, but it would work. He was about halfway down when he saw the first flash of lightning.

“Climbing down this metal lightning magnet in an electrical storm… Still not the most idiotic thing I’ve done today.” All things considered, John thought he’d handled himself pretty well. Maybe he’d even look into taking that parkour course at the veteran’s center; when he stretched, his shoulder twinged with a resounding _hell no._

John glanced over the ledge of the building, and discovered that Taylor had managed to make it to the mouth of the alley, pacing nervously, as if he were trying to decide where to go next. He was eyeing the side alley.

“All right Sherlock, where are you?” John peered down each alley, but the only source of light was down the side alley. The storm clouds were so heavy that the sky was dark as night. As he watched the clouds continue to roil, he noticed movement on the rooftop diagonal from his own location. Despite the heat, he shivered when the wind gusted.

That bastard. That utter bastard. Sherlock was up on that god damn rooftop, and for what purpose? None. There was absolutely no reason in hell for Sherlock to be up there that John could see. His heart was racing and he struggled to swallow back the bile that was threatening the back of his throat. He wanted to shout up to Sherlock – tell him to stop being a bloody wanker and come down from there, that his heart couldn’t take it – but he couldn’t seem to formulate the words. John realized he’d been whispering a litany of curses under his breath since he’d spotted his flatmate.

And then he noticed Taylor had stopped pacing. He was staring at the side alley with fierce determination.

He was going to run for it.

If John didn’t do something, he knew Sherlock would try. He thought he heard movement in the alley opposite him, but it was too dark to see for certain. It was down to him. He was going to have to stop Jack Taylor from running, despite the fact that he was no longer convinced of Jack’s guilt (based solely on his injuries), and the fact that the only thing he actually cared about at the moment was that his idiot best friend was standing on a rooftop once again.

A cursory glance of the alley revealed John’s only option – a rusty old skip directly below him. From two storeys up, it wasn’t the greatest idea, but it would have to do. The lid on the skip appeared to be in good condition. If he could land near the center, there should be enough give that the impact wouldn’t cause him too much damage. And timed properly, he could tackle Taylor from the top of the skip.

Oh god. 

John put one foot up on the ledge. He was going to do it. He was going to jump off the roof. He refused to look up at the spot where he’d last seen Sherlock. For as much as he hated the very thought of Sherlock up on that rooftop, he didn’t want Sherlock to see what he was about to do.

Suddenly there was definite movement from the north alley, and the group of officers lit up the entire area with their torches. There was a noise from below John, and he thought he saw Taylor move. Without a second thought, John jumped.

His heart nearly stopped when he heard Sherlock shout his name. There wasn’t even time to register a response, as he hit the top of the skip, too far back from the center. He landed wrong on his right foot, but he didn’t notice the pain until he took his second step in order to jump from the skip. _That is definitely sprained. Damn it. This is going to hurt._

He jumped in the direction where he’d most likely collide with Taylor, except Taylor never actually left the alley, and John was on a collision course with the solid ground.

Years of training came back to him a flash, and John pulled his knees up slightly toward his chest. If he could stay pliant and land on his feet, he could tuck into a roll, and avoid serious injury. Except at the last instant he realized he was going to be landing in a mess of broken glass, and he had zero desire to have someone digging broken glass from his arse. 

So he took the full impact on his feet, and in an effort to keep his balance, his hands. He knew he should have risked the glass in his arse the minute he landed. He managed to keep from screaming by sheer force of will, and he could do little else but draw shallow frantic breaths for several moments. He realized he had landed right in front of Donovan, and she might have said something to him, but he was working so hard to keep himself composed, the only sound he could hear was his own heart racing.

His preliminary mental evaluation determined, with some assurance, that his right ankle was definitely sprained. He’d landed hardest on his left foot when he’d hit the ground, and had at least hairline fractures of the first and second metatarsals on that foot – a very common injury he’d seen among paratroopers in Afghanistan. His right wrist was sprained, as he’d favored his left arm somewhat when he landed, but he could actually feel the shards of broken glass imbedded in both palms. There were likely other strains and over extended muscles, but these were the most immediate.

John knew very well he should stay put, but his mind was concerned with only one thing. Get to Sherlock. After he’d jumped, he’d heard the emotion in Sherlock’s voice. He needed to get to him, tell him it was okay. He’d be okay.

So he forced himself to stand up. John bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming vulgarities. He turned slowly in order to search for Sherlock, barely registering the ever growing number of police officers. Until suddenly he was face to face with Jack Taylor. 

John could finally see his face clearly. He was severely bruised. And terrified. John held up one hand, in an intended gesture of goodwill. Taylor flinched when he saw John’s bloody hand.

“Don’t come any closer Jack.” John shook his head and sighed when Taylor took another step out into the side alley. If John was right, if David Taylor’s death had been accidental, it would be in Jack’s best interest to surrender now, and go quietly. He’d not be charged with anything more than inducing panic. He held up both hands, to stop Jack from running. He realized too late how terrible they must look covered in blood. “The only way out of here is to let one of these officers walk you out. I recommend you cooperate.”

Jack eyed John’s hands once more. “Damn, mate. What happened to you? Did one of these bloody corrupt coppers do that to you?” He practically spat the words as he glanced around in disgust at the overwhelming police presence. When he realized he had no way out, except to do exactly what John had recommended, Jack dropped to his knees in surrender.

John watched Jack surrender, and then waited for someone, _anyone_ to do something. He shouted back over his shoulder, where he thought Lestrade probably was, "someone with some actual authority to do so want to help a bloke out by arresting this idiot?” There was a flurry of movement then, but none of it mattered because in the next moment, Sherlock was there.

"Idiot. What were you thinking? You could have killed yourself." Sherlock kept his voice low.

"It's exactly what you would've done." Ordinarily John would have gone on the defensive, but it had started to rain, and John had started to shiver, and it really wasn’t cold out, but John was suddenly freezing. More than a bit not good, that.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "But I would have done it better."

"Arse." John shook his head, winced in pain, and then looked over at Taylor. "It was accidental, I think."

"Agreed." Sherlock stepped closer to John. John was thankful for the grounding presence. "Damage report, Doctor."

"Nothing fatal." John tried to take a step, groaned, and all but collapsed into Sherlock.

"A & E?"

John grunted. "No ambulance, though."

John allowed Sherlock to half carry him from the alley, as he leaned on him the entire way. "You know, people are talking," Sherlock whispered.

"They do little else." John managed a chuckle.

"I heard the word superhero used quite liberally."

"Bloody hell." John groaned as Sherlock helped him into a cab. Sherlock's mobile pinged as he was climbing in the other side.

“Mycroft already?”

Sherlock snorted. “Nosy git… But he’s got a doctor waiting to see to you.”

John nodded and leaned against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Why do you think David’s death was an accident, John?”

Sherlock was attempting to keep him awake and distracted. Brilliant man. John took a moment to order his thoughts. “Jack’s injured. Bruises, sprains and strains, possible dislocated shoulder, definite concussion. All the same injuries Molly found on David.”

“And?”

“And, I’ve treated a handful of teenage boys with the same injuries over the past few weeks. It all started with a YouTube video of some wanker rolling down a hill in a wheelie bin. I think Jack tried it first, and then David. But David ended up dead, and Jack got scared.” 

Sherlock hummed his agreement. “Excellent, John. For once your terrible job at that god awful surgery has proven useful. I’ll text Lestrade.”

 

**MONDAY, PRESS CONFERENCE**

 

“Sir?”

“What is it Stephens?” Lestrade drummed his fingers on the table impatiently.

“Well, we’ve received a link to another video, sir. It does include the incident in the alley, but, well…”

“What, Stephens. Out with it.”

“There’s more. Earlier footage. Looks like it starts with Doc… _Captain_ Watson climbing a fire escape.”

“Play it. Play it now!” Donovan grinned deviously at John.

“Damn it, Sherlock. I am going to kill you.” John whispered.

“What? I haven’t seen this. I’m rather looking forward to it.” Sherlock smiled innocently. He glanced at the walking cast on John’s left foot and the brace around his right ankle. “Besides, I’d like to see you catch me.”

“Don’t underestimate me, you cocky bastard. You haven’t seen the video yet. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Pashto translation key ([actual insults](https://orbala.wordpress.com/2014/10/26/khairey-pashto-curses-insults-and-abuses-in-the-pashtun-culture/), which crack me up because they're so specific):
> 
> – Ee naharay: Greedy/selfish  
> – Peesho/Peeshai: Green-eyed  
> \- Toalya saray: Someone with tight curls  
> – Shoda: Idiot  
> – Dere qrrate ma kawa: Shut your ugly big mouth
> 
>  
> 
> Also, if you're not familiar with _scunner_ , it's a Scottish insult for someone who is a loathsome shite.
> 
> And now you've learned a whole other sort of thing. ;-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["It was a Dark and Stormy Night..."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145927) by [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom), [scrub456](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456)




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